


not to be outdone in sheer depravity

by Kaesa



Series: Kaesa's Whumptober 2019 fics [12]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Death Threats, Gabriel rapes Crowley, Gore, Gun Kink, Holy Water, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Rape, Sickfic, Whumptober 2019, misuse of cold medicine, perhaps reconsider putting your dick in a snake demon's mouth gabriel, rape revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 03:17:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21264188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesa/pseuds/Kaesa
Summary: The Archangel Gabriel corners Crowley with a water pistol full of holy water.





	not to be outdone in sheer depravity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober 2019, for the prompts "gunpoint," "secret injury," and "recovery."

When someone had grabbed Crowley and shoved him hard against a wall, pointing a gun-shaped object at his chest, he'd assumed this was a mugging and grinned, because Crowley _loved _getting mugged, it was always hilarious.

But then he saw that the gun was made of neon green plastic, and the bastard holding it was the very picture of an American businessman with more money than sense, and his grin turned very fixed.

"Don't move, demon," said Gabriel, pressing the water pistol into his chest. He spread his wings ostentatiously, and used them to block Crowley in.

"Sure, yeah, not moving," said Crowley, trying to be casual. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"I hear you've been making trouble," said Gabriel. "Interfering with miracles. Shaping highways into demonic sigils. Causing pain and misery wherever you go."

"Me? Really? Making trouble? You heard that?" Crowley asked. "About _me? _No! Never! Must be some other demon, not _me,_ I'm all --"

"Shut the fuck up, you disgusting abomination," snapped Gabriel.

"Got a mouth on you, you have," said Crowley. "Do you pray to your mother with that mouth, Gabe? I can call you Gabe, can't --"

Gabriel punched him, which meant he lost a few moments to dazedness when his head hit the brick wall behind him. His cracked sunglasses fell to the ground. Before Crowley could form another set of words, Gabriel grabbed him by the jaw and wrenched it open. "You will _not _disrespect an _Archangel, _fiend."

Then he stuck the water pistol into Crowley's mouth. It _burned,_ and Crowley screamed involuntarily. Gabriel, shaking with rage, shoved it deeper, and that was when everything got somehow even worse, because some fucked-up part of Crowley's psyche had inexplicably decided, _Certain painful and humiliating death at the hands of Creation's biggest wanker, you say? I'm in! _and these were really not the trousers Crowley wanted to have an involuntary hard-on in, but he was certainly having one now, and Gabriel was bound to notice.

"Are you _enjoying _this?" Gabriel stared at him in horrified fascination. "Amazing. I thought I'd seen the worst of demonic depravity before but this -- this is impressive."

Shit. _Shit._

"Huh. I wonder how much further I can push this in." He tried to press the gun deeper but it wouldn't move. Gabriel looked at him coldly. "I've heard," he said deliberately, "that serpents can unhinge their jaws."

Then he pulled the trigger the merest fraction of an inch, and Crowley coughed and spluttered and involuntarily opened his mouth wider, and Gabriel got what he wanted.

Crowley whimpered, and Gabriel smiled. "There you go. Much easier on you if you do what I tell you the first time, isn't it? I wonder, though... should I burn out that forked tongue of yours, or just put you out of your misery?"

His tongue wasn't even forked right now. Crowley was disproportionately indignant about that, but it was a little oasis of annoyance in a sea of terror, and he appreciated that much.

Gabriel let a little more of the holy water trickle down his throat, and Crowley didn't have a gag reflex but he wished he had, because it burned all the way down. Between the horrible stinging and the humiliation of hearing his own gurgling muffled scream, Crowley's eyes were watering, but not enough to prevent him from seeing Gabriel's delighted, cruel fascination.

And there was another thing about Gabriel's reaction that Crowley noticed, further down, and it was no comfort to him whatsoever, because, Satan's balls, Gabriel might actually be Creation's biggest wanker; the line of his hardening dick was impossible not to notice.

Gabriel must have noticed where his eyes had gone -- bless it, Crowley wished he had his sunglasses back on. He smiled. "I'm having an idea," said Gabriel.

If Crowley's mouth wasn't full he would be congratulating Gabriel on what must be a momentous occasion; instead he tried to fill his glare with as much scorn as possible, but if Gabriel noticed, he didn't say anything, only forced him down onto his knees, jerking the gun down and pressing the top of his head with his other hand.

"I've never done this before," said Gabriel, cheerfully. "Always wondered about it, but, you know how it is, I just get so busy with work. Never had the time!" As if he was talking about going to China on holiday, or picking up a new hobby, and not raping a demon.

He took the gun out of Crowley's mouth, and Crowley coughed and spat blood onto the pavement.

"Disgusting," said Gabriel, pressing the muzzle -- did water pistols really have muzzles? Crowley wondered -- anyway, it was the squirty part, and it was pressed into the side of his head. Gabriel unzipped his trousers and took out what was, frankly, an absurd amount of cock. Crowley wondered what he was compensating for, because it had to be something, to consciously decide to have to fit that thing into business casual. "No smart comments?" he asked Crowley.

"They'd be wasted on you anyway," said Crowley, hoarsely.

"Funny," said Gabriel. He wrenched Crowley's jaw open and fairly rammed his cock down Crowley's throat. Crowley resisted the urge to bite the thing off; Gabriel wouldn't bleed out and die like a normal human, and then he'd use the water pistol on Crowley, and Crowley very desperately wanted to survive this.

"Well? Get to work," said Gabriel, thrusting roughly into him. Crowley tried to withdraw into himself, to pretend it was Aziraphale, who he'd fantasized about sucking off plenty of times, but it was impossible to keep that pretense up for long with Gabriel's grunting and careless thrusting and his hand at the back of Crowley's head, shoving himself deeper into Crowley's throat, which was already screaming from the holy water. So he tried to at least to pretend that it was voluntary; that, in a feat of spectacularly bad taste, he'd _chosen _to blow some awful American in an alley, and the awful American had a thing for guns, which made sense, really, being both awful and American. And Crowley was able to ignore the sting of the water pistol on his scalp and the horrible stretch of his throat for a while by working out which Awful American Gun Things he could safely take credit for with Head Office, and which were just pushing his luck.

Gabriel didn't last long, thank Satan, coming into Crowley's throat, moaning and ramming himself into Crowley a few more times as his dick spurted. Angelic come didn't burn his throat, or at least, it didn't make it hurt worse than the holy water did. Which was a nice thing to know, only Crowley really wished he'd learned it in a different context.

And then Gabriel, in the throes of orgasm, let the water pistol slip from his hand.

Crowley seized his opportunity. His teeth lengthened into fangs and he bit down, _hard._

Gabriel screamed, and it was one of the sweetest sounds Crowley'd ever heard, right up there with enraged motorists honking at other, equally enraged motorists during traffic jams, or people screaming in wordless rage as their Travelcards refused to work.

Crowley swallowed. He kicked the gun behind him, stood up, and slammed Gabriel into the wall.

"Nasssty wound, isn't it?" Crowley hissed, grinning, teeth full of blood. There was something wrong with his voice but he didn't care right now. Gabriel's eyes were wide, and he was still whimpering. "You're going to go right back up to Heaven, dicklessss wonder, and you're going to _never do that shit again,_ and whatever the _fuck _you actually came down here for -- don't tell me you had orderss to rape a demon, that wass _all you _\-- what_ever _you came down here for, it'ss ssolved, nothing to ssee here."

"Or else what?" Gabriel sounded awfully brave for someone who was bleeding all over his bespoke trousers.

"Or elssse," said Crowley, sinking claws into Gabriel's balls and enjoying the resulting _shriek, _"Or elsse I tell everyone Downsstairss how I tricked the Archangel Gabriel into getting his dick bitten off, and if you don't think ssomething __that__ juicy won't make itss way Upsstairss, you're even sstupider than I thought."

And Gabriel, either seeing the wisdom in this or at the very least seeking to escape Crowley's claws, vanished instantly.

Crowley had to take about half an hour to collect himself. He didn't have a gag reflex built in, so he took a few moments to work out how to make one, then used it to cough up Gabriel's dick and quite a lot of blood and bile. It burned coming up, and somehow got up his nose, too, so now everything smelled like blood. Reaching into his coat pocket, he put a new pair of shades on, and vanished the blood and the dick, and then leaned against the wall, shakily, trying to remember how to breathe without coughing.

He ignored the erection. He didn't want to deal with that at all.

When he felt reasonably sane again, he made his way back to the Bentley, ignoring the stares he was getting. He supposed he must look like an investment banker who'd finally snapped and started eating squirrels for breakfast.

He climbed into the Bentley, and immediately felt safer.

He picked up the carphone, which had installed itself the moment Crowley decided he really ought to have a carphone, and cleared his throat. (Then he removed the gag reflex, because that almost made him throw up all over again, and he couldn't have that in the _Bentley._) Then he dialed the only number he had memorized.

(Including emergency numbers. If pressed, Crowley probably could have guessed that if you wanted to get an ambulance, at least one 9 was probably involved.)

On the third ring, he heard, "I'm sorry, we're closed, but if--"

"Angel, it's me," said Crowley, his voice sounding awful and ravaged. "Closed? Really? It's only --" He checked his watch. "It's barely eleven in the morning."

"I wanted to reread some Austen, and people kept coming in and _asking about books,_" said Aziraphale, outraged by this breach of etiquette.

Crowley smiled to himself. "The sheer nerve of them," he said.

"Are you all right, Crowley? You sound horrible."

"'Course I'm horrible, I'm a demon," Crowley said. "But, yeah, I've got -- bit of a sore throat today."

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale. "How? We don't get sick."

"Ehh, maybe _you _don't," said Crowley, although of course, he didn't either. "But I --" And he started coughing, quite without meaning to. There was blood on his hand when he pulled away. "Ugh," he said into the phone. "Sssorry about that. But I'm gonna have to cancel on you tonight."

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said again. "Well, you can't go to the theater sounding like that, and you ought to get some rest anyway. Can I bring you anything from the restaurant?"

"Nah, I'm fine, you go and enjoy yourself," said Crowley, his stomach revolting at the thought of food.

"Oh, Crowley. I'm so sorry," said Aziraphale. "I'd reschedule for some other evening but it's closing in a week and Gabriel mentioned he wanted to meet with me, but of course he never said _when._ He said something about a demonic motorway -- that wasn't you, was it?"

"Mm, I'll tell you all about it later," said Crowley. "Hopefully I'll feel better by Friday, and if he doesn't turn up before then, well." He wiped a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. "That'ss _entirely _on him."

* * *

Crowley was watching television when the knock at the door came. His stomach was still roiling from the morning, and he was in such a foul mood that he genuinely hoped it was a door-to-door salesman. Hell was in the midst of road construction, anyway, and could use the extra building material.

But when he cracked the door open, it was Aziraphale, looking politely worried, as if he would stop worrying if it was inconvenient at the moment. (He wouldn't, Crowley knew.) He was holding several plastic bags and two cartons of soup.

Crowley hadn't realized until now that Aziraphale was both the only person he wanted to see right now, and also the absolute last person he wanted to see. He tried to make himself speak but all that came out was a very hoarse approximation of "Angel?"

"Oh, my dear, you sound positively _awful,_" said Aziraphale.

"Thanksss?" he said, but Aziraphale hadn't waited for a response before bustling in, the plastic bags rustling.

Crowley drifted into the kitchen in Aziraphale's wake and watched him take out a big cardboard box from one of the bags.

"Do you have bowls?" Aziraphale asked him, tugging a block of styrofoam out of the box and pulling a kettle out of it. He unwound the cord quickly and plugged the kettle in. At no point did he consult Crowley on any of these decisions, which was actually fine, because Crowley didn't want to make decisions right now, about anything, although he was still very certain he didn't want Aziraphale to be here, and equally certain that he just wanted Aziraphale to sit next to him and talk to him forever about nothing.

"Er. No?" Crowley said.

"You do now," said Aziraphale. He filled the kettle up and set it to boil. "I'm afraid they didn't have a fancy kettle with a lot of bells and whistles, I know you like that sort of thing, but there are only so many bells and whistles one can add to --"

"What are you doing here?" Crowley blurted.

Aziraphale took a bowl out of his cabinet -- fussy porcelain ones, in a blue and white pattern -- and began to spoon soup into it, out of the carton, with a ladle that Crowley also definitely hadn't owned before. "I'm keeping you company," he said.

"Didn't know you needed soup for that," said Crowley, watching the bowl fill up with soup.

"It's supposed to be soothing when you've got a sore throat," said Aziraphale. "Which you do. How's the coughing by the w-- oh, oh dear," said Aziraphale, as Crowley suddenly remembered just how scratchy his throat was and began coughing again. A nasty little glob of mucus and blood ended up on his hand, which he tried to hide from Aziraphale, and failed. "Is that _blood,_ Crowley?"

"I'm fine, it's fine, just -- just a lot of coughing. It's a cold, or ssomething."

Aziraphale gave him a _look_, the sort of look that made Crowley wish he was wearing his sunglasses. "When have you ever had a cold before, Crowley?" said Aziraphale. "Ever?"

In the background, the television emitted syrupy clarinet music as Crowley tried to come up with something to say. "Well," said Crowley. "Well I mean." He cleared his throat. It tasted metallic.

"Crowley, what happens when you get a cold? What are the symptoms?" Aziraphale asked, in his __I_ am being very patient with you now, I hope you know that _voice.

"Well, there's coughing, and sneezing, and, and headaches," said Crowley, "and... throwing up?" he hazarded. Seemed a safe bet. Most human ailments tended to have throwing up in there, and he had definitely been throwing up. "Oh, and sores," he added, with confidence, because he'd definitely heard of cold sores.

Aziraphale looked no less worried. "How do you know it's a cold and not... something worse?" he asked.

"Like what?"

"Well. Well it might be, I don't know, tuberculosis or something," said Aziraphale.

"It's not tuberculosis," said Crowley, rolling his eyes. "Where would I even _get _that?"

"I don't know!" said Aziraphale. "But I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong, Crowley!"

"I didn't asssk you to h--" Crowley promptly started coughing again. It went on and on, and Crowley genuinely wondered if he was going to discorporate from this, if his body wouldn't just shake apart from the violence of the cough, and his eyes were watering and his head hurt terribly, and when he was finally able to stop coughing, he was dizzy for a good few breaths.

Finally, when Crowley had caught his breath, Aziraphale said, "May I _please _stay and keep you company, at least?"

"Fine," said Crowley. "But I don't want to talk about it."

Aziraphale gave him a tiny, hopeful smile, and Crowley's eyes started watering again, but thankfully, Aziraphale had to turn away for a moment to put the bowl of soup on a plate, and Crowley wiped the tears away before Aziraphale handed him the soup.

Crowley didn't want the soup. He didn't _not _want the soup, but his stomach had not been the same since it'd had an archangel dick in it. Crowley wasn't sure if it was a physiological issue or if his stomach simply objected to archangels on lack of principal, but either way, he'd been nauseous on and off all day and had had to reinstall the gag reflex a couple of times. He'd decided just to leave it in for now.

Maybe the soup would get the taste out of his mouth, metaphorically. He took a spoonful. It was nice. Salty. It stung going down, but it didn't make him cough, at least.

"Why don't you go sit down with that?" Aziraphale said. Normally Crowley would have objected to being ordered around in his own home (or out of it), no matter how gently, but coughing was tiring and there was a couch to loll around on.

Aziraphale joined him in a few moments, with his own bowl of soup, and also two mugs of tea. Crowley could feel Aziraphale's eyes on him, soft and worried and kind, and he almost told him; he almost said _So the actual thing is, your boss squirted holy water down my throat and then stuck his comically large dick down same, and then, not to be outdone in sheer depravity, I bit off his dick and ate it,_ but the trouble was...

The trouble was, really, that Aziraphale might believe him. He might not, and Crowley didn't want to think about that, didn't want to consider the possibility that Aziraphale would think he'd make something up like that. But the real trouble was that Aziraphale might hear that, and think, _Yes, Gabriel would do that,_ and then he would think _But that's horrible! Somebody ought to do something about him!_ and then -- and then Aziraphale would march right up to Heaven and say -- what? Crowley was no longer familiar with the procedures of Heavenly Resources, but he couldn't imagine this going well for Aziraphale. At best, he would end up Falling so Heaven could save face and shut him up.

Aziraphale didn't deserve any of that, so Crowley wasn't telling him, ever.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the television host wander around a dilapidated garden, talking about vegetables and occasionally fondling hedges in an overfamiliar way. "Where is this house, anyway? I think I've been there," said Aziraphale, after a while.

"Dunno, I missed the start of it while we were arguing about soup," said Crowley. "Now we'll never be able to follow the plot."

"We weren't arguing about soup," said Aziraphale.

Crowley stopped talking. He was aware of Aziraphale, on the other side of the couch, without seeing him; aware of the weight of him on the cushions, the warmth of him, the mild scrape of his spoon against his bowl. He closed his eyes, and tried to make this be enough. This _should _be enough, he knew; it had been more than enough only a week ago. But now he wanted to lean against Aziraphale, and if he did that it still wouldn't be enough; he'd want Aziraphale to hold him.

He tried not to think about Aziraphale's hands on his back, or in his hair, or how Aziraphale smelled.

After the television provided a thrilling recital of statistics about glasshouses, Aziraphale put his soup bowl down on the coffee table and cleared his throat, awkwardly. "Was it a... was it a work thing?" he asked, tentatively.

Crowley didn't have it in him to start another fight with Aziraphale. "Yeah," he said, weakly.

"I'm sorry," said Aziraphale.

Crowley didn't ask what he was sorry about. "It's fine, angel."

"Is the soup helping?" he asked hopefully.

"A little." There was a chunk of chicken in his next spoonful, though, and the feel of it sliding down his throat was too much. Crowley started coughing, getting chicken soup all down his front, and then hurriedly put his bowl down and rushed to the bathroom, whereupon he threw up once more. The soup did not taste half as good coming up. "Fuck," he muttered, chugged three glasses of water, and wandered back out, shakily.

Aziraphale was standing uncertainly outside the bathroom, looking more worried than ever.

"It's _fine,_ angel," Crowley said, before Aziraphale could accuse him of anything.

"I brought, er. I brought medicine," said Aziraphale. "I don't know if it would help but that sounds -- well. Very unpleasant."

"Mm. Yeah," said Crowley. "What sort of medicine?"

"I don't really know," said Aziraphale. "I went to the chemist and said, 'Have you got anything for sore throats?' and they did, so I bought one of everything. They seemed concerned. I said it was a very bad cough. Which it clearly is!"

Crowley considered this. "Well. Worth a try," he said. "Did you get any of the stuff with heroin in it?"

"I don't think they sell that anymore," said Aziraphale.

"Ah, well, it's not very good if you drink it anyway," said Crowley. They made their way back into the kitchen, where Aziraphale dumped his new collection of cough and cold remedies out onto the counter. "Which one is the best?" Crowley asked, frowning at the lengths of the words on some of the labels.

"I asked, and they said it depended on the cough," said Aziraphale, as though he was suspicious they'd been withholding information.

"Could just try them all," said Crowley.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt," said Aziraphale. "It is medicine, after all."

Crowley ended up skipping anything in a tablet, because swallowing solid things did not seem like a good idea just now, but he worked his way through four or five (or six? He was beginning to lose count) nasty little plastic cups of various cough medicines, and then downed some tea with honey to get rid of the taste.

"Well?" Aziraphale asked, expectantly.

"'Ss all a bit ssswimmy," said Crowley.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale. Crowley made his way carefully back to the couch before collapsing onto it. "Do you feel better, at least?"

"Mm. Nope. Maybe," said Crowley. Aziraphale sat down next to him. "I feel. I feel drunk."

"Well. That might be better, depending," said Aziraphale.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, across the terrible distance imposed by the fact that the couch was not a loveseat, and decided just this once, it would be fine to lean up against Aziraphale. He lurched across the couch, and ended up with his head resting on Aziraphale's shoulder. "Definitely better," he said.

"Ah," said Aziraphale. "You _are _drunk. Or something similar."

"Sssomething sssimilar," said Crowley, for the sheer sibilance of it. "Tasssted bloody awful though. Wine'ss better."

Aziraphale considered him for a moment, and then put his arm around Crowley's shoulder. It was good. It was much better than sitting at the opposite end of the couch.

He turned his face so that it was pressed against Aziraphale's chest, and this -- this was ideal. He felt safe like this. "'M glad you're here," he mumbled into Aziraphale's jacket. "Talk to me?"

"About what?"

"Anything," said Crowley. "Jussst want. Jussst want to hear your voicsse. Not work," he warned. "Bookssss, maybe. Anything. After it happened, all I wanted wasss to hear your voicsse."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. There was a long silence, and from the way Aziraphale's breath had hitched, Crowley realized, vaguely, that he might've said too much. But then Aziraphale spoke again. "Well! Well, I started reading last night and forgot to close the shop, so my first customer today came in at seven in the morning -- can you imagine! Buying books at seven in the morning!"

"Terrible," agreed Crowley, muzzily.

"Awful," agreed Aziraphale. "Who _raised _these people? So, of course, I said..." He continued on in this vein for -- well, Crowley didn't know how long, because Crowley fell asleep soon after.

He woke up several days later in his bed, remembered everything with mingled horror and fondness, and resolved never to take cough medicine again. But he did call Aziraphale and assure him that he was well, and he didn't cough all day, and they arranged to go to the show Crowley'd had to miss before, because Gabriel had mysteriously failed to arrange a meeting, and (Aziraphale had added) he didn't much want to see Gabriel anyway.

* * * 

It was about a year after the apocalypse failed to occur that Crowley finally had to tell Aziraphale about what he thought of as the Water Pistol Incident, or occasionally, when he was particularly annoyed, the Smug Purple-Eyed Hypocritical Bastard Incident. They were sitting on Crowley's couch -- well, Crowley was in some liminal state between sitting and lying -- and slightly tipsy on sweet wine, arguing about the opera they'd just seen. They'd mostly picked it to see how ridiculous it would be, and it had not failed them on that front; the librettist apparently thought the Crusades needed more demons and evil sorceresses than had actually been present, as far as either he or Aziraphale could recall.

Crowley felt it was unfair to depict demons having such a large part in proceedings that had been almost wholly a human affair, when angels were probably about as competent at mucking things up, maybe better. Several tangents later, somehow, Crowley had got to rambling a bit about how badly Heaven had treated Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was insisting that most of his former coworkers were merely misguided.

This was something Crowley was willing to believe of some of the angels -- not the ones who'd been willing to watch as Aziraphale burned, but hypothetically, some other angels, maybe ones he'd never met, might be more stupid than terrible, and that still didn't excuse them from being colossal wankers -- but when Aziraphale had said that Gabriel was really just trying to do right by the Great Plan, Crowley had sort of lost his temper.

"Angel, he tried to kill you -- they all tried to kill you but he -- he fucking -- he told you to die! With a smile on his face!"

"Yes, but -- oh Crowley, I know he must've been upset, really," said Aziraphale. "It was all he'd been working for for six thousand years, and he'd never really _been _to Earth much except for suits --"

"And to steal eyes," Crowley put in.

"And to steal eyes," Aziraphale acknowledged, "but look, my point is he didn't understand, really, what the big deal about Earth was. It's not that I ever really _liked _him, and he was always sort of... accidentally cruel, I suppose..." Crowley had just realized why he was feeling the creeping nausea he'd had during the whole discussion, and what the tightness in his throat was from, and it must have been showing on his face, because Aziraphale had trailed off and was looking very concerned. "Crowley?"

"It's. It's nothing," said Crowley, who wasn't sure how to even begin explaining this. "Gonna -- gonna sober up, hang on." If anything, he wanted to be drunker, but he was queasy enough as it was.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, a little more forcefully, "it is __clearly __not nothing. I'm sorry, we don't have to talk about this anymore, but when you start looking like that I think it's only sensible of me to be worried."

Crowley sat up, and took a few deep breaths, trying to remind himself that this was his flat and he was safe, and Aziraphale was safe, and Gabriel was terrified of the both of them now, and that helped the nausea. It didn't help Aziraphale looking at him like that, though; he'd clearly sobered up too, and Crowley felt guilty for having caused him to leave the comfortable buzz of the wine behind. "Angel, you have to promise me you won't do anything about this. All right?"

"Well, now you have me __really __worried," said Aziraphale, scooting next to him on the couch. "Crowley, dearest, what on earth is the matter? Did he do something else you haven't told me about at the trial?"

"You haven't promised," said Crowley.

"I will not promise not to do anything about it, since I've no idea what it is," said Aziraphale, and Crowley knew there was no cajoling him into that promise.

"Fine, then -- don't -- don't do anything stupid, all right?" said Crowley.

"I would _never,_" said Aziraphale.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I won't go after Gabriel, if that's the promise you're after," said Aziraphale. "Whatever he tried to do, it obviously didn't work."

"That's..." Crowley made an unhappy noise, but there was no explaining without _explaining,_ and Aziraphale had made the promise, at least. "So. In the eighties. Maybe the nineties? Fuck, I don't remember. It was a while ago," he said.

"Many unfortunate fashion decisions ago," said Aziraphale.

"Right, yes," said Crowley. "So. So I was, you know, minding my own business, out and about, possibly causing some hideous commuter delays, seeing how long I could make people wait before six buses arrived at once, I think -- anyway. So Gabriel, the bastard, comes at me with a water pistol."

"A water pistol -- _Crowley!"_ said Aziraphale, going terribly pale as he realized what must have been in it. "Oh, Crowley."

Crowley swallowed. "So then, he. Er. He. Well, he trapped me, gloated a little bit like a cartoon villain, and -- and I guess I was too mouthy for him, so he -- so he stuck the water pistol in my mouth."

"He _what?_" said Aziraphale. He was no longer pale, but flushed with anger.

"And then he -- he stuck it down my throat and -- so there was -- there was water going down my throat and -- d'you remember that time I said I had a sore throat and you came over and --"

And Aziraphale's expression softened. "Oh, no, my poor darling, of __course __that would -- oh, it must have hurt so much --"

"I'm not done, angel," said Crowley. Aziraphale looked very concerned at this, as if he could not imagine what could possibly be worse, and Crowley almost wished he'd just stopped talking and let him keep that assumption. Only he had a sort of momentum going and he couldn't just stop the story. "So then. So then he." It had to come out, but he didn't know how to say it in a way that wouldn't horrify Aziraphale. "Look, it's not as bad as it's going to sound --"

"Crowley, what did he do?" said Aziraphale. His tone was kind, but there was something very dangerous in his eyes. That was what Crowley had been worried about.

"He..." What was the least-bad way to say this? "He made me give him a blowjob," said Crowley, finally.

"He -- he _made _you__ \-- _Crowley!_ Why didn't you tell me?" said Aziraphale, absolutely appalled. "How dare he -- an Archangel -- and him all self-righteous and -- oh, Crowley, I'm so sorry if I ever gave you the impression that -- that I wouldn't have believed you or --"

"Angel," said Crowley.

"-- and I'm sorry I was sitting here trying to defend him when you'd been through that, and ooh, I could strangle him, well, I couldn't, he's an Archangel, but, but how dare he, what a vile, selfish, cruel, how could he, how could _anyone,_ really, but --"

Crowley could feel him shaking with rage. "_Angel,_" he repeated.

"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry, Crowley, I didn't mean to talk over you," said Aziraphale. "I'll -- I'll be quiet." Crowley watched him fight to get the fury off of his face; he did not quite succeed. He was trying so hard to be a Good Listener, Crowley could tell, but it was easy enough to see he was all over the place, furious and upset and terrified for Past Crowley.

"Angel," he said, a third time. "I thought -- I mean I was fairly sure -- I didn't think you'd think I'd make something up like that. That's actually why I didn't tell you. Didn't want you to have to -- to have to know all that."

"But," said Aziraphale. "I don't understand. I could've _done _something and..." Crowley watched the other shoe drop. "Oh. Oh dear. And I would have, too, and it would have all turned out very badly for the both of us and Gabriel would have come out of it all just fine."

"Yeah, basically," said Crowley.

Aziraphale took his hand, and gripped it tight. "I'm sorry, my dear, I -- I was a fool about Heaven, wasn't I? And you had to suffer through it all alone, and --"

"I wasn't alone," said Crowley, sliding his arm around Aziraphale and leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "Don't you remember? You showed up with chamomile tea and honey and two kinds of chicken soup and gallons of cough medicine."

"Yes, but I should've -- I should've done more," said Aziraphale.

"Oh, Aziraphale. After -- after it all was over, after I'd dealt with Gabriel, and cleaned myself up, and got back to the car, all I could think about was hearing your voice." Crowley smiled, a bit sadly. "So I called you, and it cheered me right up to hear you even though I was canceling our plans, and then you came over and -- you didn't have to bother with the medicine or the soup or -- I think you bought me a kettle, which, did you think I didn't have a kettle?"

"I _knew _you didn't have a kettle," Aziraphale said, "since I _vividly _recall you miracling water hot to make tea at one point, which..."

Crowley managed not to laugh at his look of horror at miracled tea. "Well, anyway. All I wanted was for you to be here with me. And you were."

Aziraphale sighed. "Well. I can't say that makes me feel much better, but I'm glad I could help, even if I didn't know what I was helping with." They sat in silence for a moment, and then Aziraphale said, "Hang on, what do you mean after you'd _dealt _with him? How on Earth did you get away? I'd have -- I'd have thought he'd have killed you afterwards." He shuddered.

Crowley laughed, and Aziraphale looked genuinely startled at that. Then Crowley gave him a thin, wicked smile. "So you know how I can, ah. Can pretty much fit anything down my throat?"

Aziraphale went red. "Well, yes, but --"

"And you know," Crowley went on, "how very sharp my teeth can get when you want me to be rough in bed?"

He went redder. "Yes, but I hardly think -- oh."

Crowley smiled wider.

Aziraphale's eyes got very big. "_Oh._ Crowley, you _didn't,_" he said, delighted and horrified all at once. "You _didn't!_"

"I did, and the fucker deserved it," said Crowley, strangely proud.

"Oh, absolutely," said Aziraphale. "Absolutely, he did. But no wonder you kept throwing up, having eaten something so vile. Your poor stomach!"

"I'll understand if you don't want my mouth on your cock anytime soon," said Crowley. He was half-joking, but privately a bit worried. He very much enjoyed sucking Aziraphale's cock; he knew he was good at it, and all of Aziraphale's little whines and gasps and the absolute _nonsense _that came out of his mouth were very gratifying.

Aziraphale looked at him in mild horror. "If you think I'd give _that _up, you're -- oh, well, I mean -- unless you'd rather not -- if it reminds you --"

"Nah," said Crowley. "Been decades. Whole different context, anyway." He turned his head to press a kiss to Aziraphale's neck. "When I'm with you I always feel safe."

Aziraphale squeezed his hand again. "Hmm. There was a time -- quite long ago, mind -- when you were the exciting sort of danger, for me, but --"

"Is there boring danger?"

"Do shut up, dear, I'm trying to be soppy," said Aziraphale, and Crowley laughed. "Anyway, I suppose the feeling is mutual."

"Better stick together, then. Nothing else for it," said Crowley.

"Indeed," said Aziraphale, and he kissed the corner of Crowley's mouth, and then he moved to kiss him full on the lips, and then, for a while, they had no need of speech.


End file.
